


Cold as Death

by missdeathfrisbee



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: s04e01-02 The Darkest Hour, Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Illness, dorocha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 21:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7907980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missdeathfrisbee/pseuds/missdeathfrisbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would have happened if Merlin had never been healed magically after the Dorocha attack? I find it a little convenient that Lancelot manages to set Merlin down by a river where some kind of spirit (Villia) is able to emerge in a bubble and heal him. So, I wrote what might have happened if Merlin had never been healed by magic at all. Warning: Angst may ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is missdeathfrisbee (also known as tapeandblades on ff.net) and here is my 'first' Merlin fic (there are more on there so...) Enjoy! [Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin (TV) or any of the characters.]

His skin is as cold as ice. Arthur can feel it through his clothes like a deathly frost, and it scares him. He sets his manservant down by the wagon, watching with horror as he slumps, boneless, against the wood.

            “We have to get him back to Gaius.” The prince leaves Lancelot to tend to a lifeless Merlin, turning to face Sir Leon. The faithful knight frowns slightly, logically observing the situation. Yes, the servant is gravely ill, but many more would die if they didn’t seal the tear made between the worlds.

            “And abandon the quest?” he asks, reluctant to speak up in this way. Arthur cares for Merlin more than any prince has ever cared for his staff.

            “He saved my life,” he counters, expression stern. “I won’t let him die.”

            “Sire, if we don’t get to the Isle of the Blessed, hundreds more will perish.”

            Arthur glances at Merlin, once again startled by the paleness of his flesh and the emptiness of his eyes. A sickening fear overwhelms him, and he is relieved when Lancelot’s voice cuts through his short-lived daze.

            “Let me take him,” he suggests, looking the prince straight in the face. Now it’s Arthur’s turn to frown.

            “Carrying a wounded man alone, it will take you two or three days to reach Camelot.” Lancelot grimaces knowingly, taking a step towards his leader.

            “Not if I go through the Valley of the Fallen Kings,” he says, eyes solemn. “You cannot give up on the quest.” Arthur can’t help but see reason, and Sir Leon voices his thoughts.

            “Sire, he’s right.” Arthur nods at them all, understanding. He almost feels uncomfortable leaving Merlin’s fate to someone else, but he knows it is the right decision.

            Percival lifts the limp serving boy into his arms, and almost every knight’s stomach rolls at the way Merlin’s head falls back so easily, as if he is already dead. The warlock is completely paralysed; so weak he can barely move his lips to protest when Arthur straps him to a horse.

            The prince purses his lips and he positions his manservant on the stallion, and there is a hint of sadness in his blue eyes. “This is my fault,” he tells Merlin, and the servant observes him dazedly. “And I’m sorry.”

            “Take me with you, please,” he chokes out, voice barely above a whisper. Arthur sighs, eyes closed.

            “You would die, Merlin.”

            “But you don’t understand,” he argues, breathless. “Please, Arthur.”

            “Do you ever do as you’re told?”

            Merlin ignores him. “I have to come with you.”

            “Merlin-“

            “We need to leave,” Sir Leon interrupts, having watched the painful exchange. Arthur squeezes Merlin’s shoulder comfortingly. “Go,” he orders, before turning to join his party. Every man watches them leave, faces creased with concern; the sound of retreating hooves putting all at unease.

 

*

 

_“If anyone can get Merlin back to Camelot, Lancelot can.”_

 

*

 

Merlin bounces over and over against the horses back, eyes flickering with each breath. He can’t go on for much longer- his vision is darkening even more rapidly than the sky.

            Thankfully, Lancelot is observant. “It’s almost nightfall,” he announces, slowing his horse from a canter to a trot. “We’ll rest here for the evening.”

            He dismounts his horse next to a silver stream that lies in the shadow of a looming stone statue. Merlin looks ghostly, propped up on the neck of his horse, red-rimmed eyes moving blearily in all directions. Sir Lancelot draws him carefully into his arms, carrying him over to the river and laying him beside it.

            The young warlock’s breathing is shallow as he lay unmoving, eyes drifting open and closed like shadows in candlelight. Lancelot dips a cloth into the water, using it to slowly drip water into Merlin’s dry open lips. “Come on, Merlin,” he mutters under his breath, pulling off his cape and laying it over the boy. And still, the servant shivers, skin cooler than that of a corpse.

            A scream echoes quietly through the trees, and although it does not reveal a Darocha, it’s enough for the knight to jump up and begin preparing a fire. He gathers as much firewood as possible without venturing too far from Merlin, and soon there is a modest fire brewing in a pool of sticks and branches.

            “I’ll have to remain awake all night,” Lancelot says to the empty air, and there’s a soft whimper from behind him. Merlin struggles to get words past the thick tongue in his mouth, and even the fire cannot warm him enough to stop the chattering of his teeth. The cold is deep in his bones, and it’s spreading through his veins like a pathogen.

            “No,” the warlock wheezes, fingers scrabbling weakly at the ground. “You can’t.”

            “You need to rest,” the older man states, lighting a torch with the flames beside him. “You are in no state to keep watch.”

            Merlin goes to argue, but he feels his strength slowly draining from him. He moans quietly before slipping into unconsciousness, the darkness shrouding him like a sorcerer’s cloak.

 

*

 

When light begins to seep through the canopy, Lancelot is beginning to shake from exhaustion. He finally lays down his blackened stick, snuffing out what remains of the fire and washing his hands and face in the cool stream. He’d watched, horrified, as Merlin deteriorated through the night, skin adopting a greyish tinge and shivering becoming more violent. The warlock looks as if the slightest breeze might knock him from the world of the living into the world of the dead.

            “Merlin,” Lancelot speaks aloud, shaking the young man’s shoulder. His eyes remain closed. “Come, Merlin,” the knight says again, voice growing louder and more concerned. “It’s growing light. We must ride.”

            Still, there is no response. Lancelot starts to panic, hurriedly scooping water into his hands and carefully pouring it onto Merlin’s forehead. The warlock merely winces, shivering harder and remaining locked in the land of sleep.

            “Oh Merlin, please,” he begs, though it’s hopeless. Carefully lifting him into his arms, he straps the boy to the horse once more, tilting his head so it rests on the soft black mane. “Don’t worry,” Lancelot says to no one as he ties Merlin’s horse to the back of his own saddle. “We’ll get you to Gaius by nightfall.”

           

*

 

A sense of dread consumes Arthur as he sits around the campfire with Sir Elyan, Gwaine, and Leon. He’s been on watch with a burning torch for several hours, and he has not said a single word to anyone. He knows something is wrong- the way Merlin had looked before they had rode off into the Valley of the Fallen Kings… it had scared him.

            “Seen anything?”

            Arthur turns to see Elyan standing next to him, holding another torch. The prince shakes his head, lips frozen shut. “Do you know what we’re going to face on the Isle of the Blessed?” He shakes his head. “Do you want to tell me?”

            Arthur meets the young knight’s gaze, almost wanting to spill everything for one moment. But then he remembers the inevitability of his doom, and he wishes he would never be asked to speak again.

            “The burden’s mine,” he says tiredly, looking out into the darkening forest, “and mine to bear alone.”

            “Look around, Arthur.” The prince watches as Elyan motions to the knights around the campfire. “We would fight a thousand armies with our bare hands for you. We’re never alone. We stand together.” He lifts his own torch higher. “Come on. I’ll take over. You need some rest.”

            Arthur hands Elyan his own torch and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you.” He’s barely made it to the fire when murderous screams fill the gaps between the trees, and they all shrink inwards, torches raised, wracked with fear and weariness.

 

*

 

The castle coming into view in the distance should be a relief to Lancelot, but the shudders that possess Merlin’s body are forcing pained moans from between his bloodless lips, and the knight can bear it no longer. The sky is darkening, and the screams of both humans and Darocha reach his ears – dismounting his horse, he quickly cuts the rope that ties it to Merlin’s. Groaning, he drags the warlock from his saddle, placing him over the rear of his own stallion and mounting its back once more. It takes some effort and a few muttered curses, but eventually Lancelot is balancing Merlin in front of him with one arm, and wielding a burning stick with the other.

            With a young warlock’s life slipping between his fingers, he forces the horse to gallop, eyes burning with determination as he heads for Camelot.


	2. Chapter Two

Gaius, having found Gwen lying on the cold paved floor of the lower town, gently wipes at her forehead with a cloth. She frowns up at the physician, confused.

            “Everyone talks about the coldness,” she says, ignoring the dull throbbing in her head. “But I don’t feel cold at all.”

            “You weren’t attacked by the Dorocha, Gwen.”

            Her brow creases like paper as she narrows her eyes at Gaius, hair mapped out like poetry on the pillow. “Then what?” Gaius leans back, expression morose. “Gaius,” she warns, turning again to face him.

            The physician looks down at his patient, concern almost imperceptibly distorting his features. He is a professional, and cannot give away too much without worrying Gwen. And yet, there is more at play here than simply the attack of the Darocha. Somebody intentionally left her at their mercy, and he already had some idea who that might be.

            “I fear someone wanted to do you harm,” he admits finally, voice still inexplicably soothing despite the gravity of his statement. Gwen’s eyes widen slightly in fear, but congealed in her gaze is a world of confusion.

            “Why?”

            “I don’t know,” he lies, expression guarded. He didn’t want to lie to Gwen, but there was no need to trouble her with issues like Morgana just yet.

            Gwen feels breathless, fearing for her life but trying her hardest to remain calm. “Well,” she breathes out, eyes darting from Gaius and to every corner of the room, “surely if they did, they would have done a better job.”

            “Maybe,” he agrees, directing his attention to the wound once more. “Cold-blooded murder is suspicious.” He leans over to his table and picks up a clean swab. “Better to leave you to the Darocha.”

After sending Gwen on her way with orders to rest and drink plenty, Gaius begins to bustle around his chambers, lighting everything flammable he can find. He may be old and wizened in his years, but he has never experienced anything like the ghoulish spirits that now haunt them. His aching bones shudder at the thought of his ward and the prince on their quest to seal the veil – he knows it requires a blood sacrifice, and can almost guarantee that it will be Merlin takes the fall. The warlock would never allow Arthur to go in his place, and Gaius slumps at his worktable, weakened by the knowledge he may lose the boy he considers his son.

            He’s beginning to drift off in his chair when a commotion outside yanks him from his slumber. Eyes swivelling the room warily, he notes the nearest torch, lying unlit next to the fire. Before he can get up to light it however, the door to his chambers swings open, revealing a dishevelled and breathless guard. Gaius trips, grasping the edge of the table for support. The guard is holding a torch, and stands up straighter before he speaks.

            “I’ve been told by Sir Lancelot, sir,” he pauses, heaving in another breath. Gaius tenses at the knight’s name – he was supposed to be on the quest with Arthur. Why is he here?

            “Go on,” he orders, rushing the guard and ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach. “What is it?”

            “It’s Merlin, sir,” he says, gaze conveying almost everything he has seen. The physician freezes, nails digging into the table, leaving crescent moons in its surface. _Merlin_. The one name he didn’t want to hear. “Lancelot told me – he said, Merlin has come to harm. He wanted me to forewarn you, before, before he brought him here.”

            “So where is he?” Gaius demands sharply, chest seized with panic. “Why isn’t he here already?”

            “He’s carrying Merlin, sir,” the guard explains, fingering the hilt of his sword nervously. It’s absolute chaos outside, with the screams of ghosts and the swinging of fire. “Guards are protecting them from the Darocha as they walk.” He bows quickly, giving Gaius one last look of despair. “I am sorry, sir,” he adds, voice genuinely apologetic. The physician feels himself being wracked with terror as the guard slowly backs out of he doorway. Finally alone, he takes a moment to let his expression falter, morphing into something akin to dread. _Not Merlin,_ he thinks, leaning heavily on the table, _not my boy._

            He takes a few more seconds to drown in his anguish before launching himself into arrays of herbs and flowers, crushing them to pulps and filling the room with the scent of medicine. He has no idea what he will be faced with when that door opens, but he has to be prepared. Turning, he grasps a potion to prevent infection in one hand, leaving it at one station where he can reach it easily. With another, he stirs a concoction to relieve pain, waiting impatiently for the reddish colour to come through. Then, in a moment of reason, he collects some more Hawthorne, wary of the chilling creatures that roam the town outside.

            After clearing his table, Gaius sits, waiting for the inevitable. His ward is going to come through that door, possibly dying, and he has to be ready to save him. He clutches his tunic, picking at it nervously. Every scenario rolls like a tapestry in his head, and he considers the outcomes for all of them, wanting to be ready for whatever he had to face.

            And yet, when the door finally opened, nothing could prepare the physician for what came through it.

            Lancelot, face slick with sweat and eyes pained, stumbled into the room, holding a bundle of limbs in his arms. But that bundle of limbs – it was Merlin. And Merlin… Oh God, _Merlin._

            If Gaius didn’t know any better, he would say the warlock was already dead. His skin, usually pulled up into a smile, had taken on a sickly grey, almost blue around his lips and nose. His red-rimmed eyes flickered with each breath – each shallow, quiet breath – and violent shivers shook his thin frame, almost jerking him out of the knight’s arms. Lancelot set him gently down on the table just in time for Gaius to collect himself, throwing his old body into professionalism.

            “Lancelot,” he exclaims, forgetting all formalities. “Tell me now – what happened?”

            “It was the Darocha,” the knight chokes out, running a hand through his windswept hair. “He threw himself in front of one… to save Arthur.” Lancelot clasps a hand over his mouth, falling dejectedly into the nearest chair. “Oh Gaius, he will be alright… He _has_ to be. He’s _Merlin_.”

            The physician rushes to get a blanket it, throwing it quickly over his ailing ward and tucking it in at the sides. “No mortal has ever survived the Darocha’s touch,” Gaius repeats absent-mindedly, Hawthorne held tightly between his fingers. “Go get more blankets,” he orders, looking at Lancelot. “There are no more in my chambers. I don’t care where you get them. Just bring them back here, quickly.”

            Lancelot, thankful for something to do, jumps up and runs from the room. Gaius, returning his attention to his ward, gently strokes his hair. “Merlin, you silly boy,” he whispers affectionately, choking on the last word. “How could you do this to an old man?”

            When Lancelot returns, Gaius is boiling some tea, throwing Hawthorne flowers into the water. “Hopefully the heat and the flowers will improve his circulation,” he says, looking up at the knight. “Wrap in those blankets. We need to get him as warm as possible.”

            He obeys the physician’s orders, gently cocooning the warlock in thick layers of cotton. “How do we fix it Gaius?” he asks, not even looking away from his friend’s bloodless face.

            “I do not know,” Gaius replies, voice riddled with hopelessness. He gestures to the book in front of him, open on a page about deadly spirits. “It says nothing here about survivors. Only that… that he will die.”

            “No.” Lancelot shakes his head adamantly, refusing to accept the physician’s words. “He can’t. The prince would never allow it.”

            Gaius smiles fondly at that, but is soon overcome with grief once more. “I don’t think Arthur has any say in the matter this time.”

 

*

 

When dawn broke, every knight at the camp was exhausted. They had been battling the Darocha all night, and it was apparent that their numbers were growing. They needed to find shelter before darkness fell once more.

            “I know of an abandoned fort a days walk from here,” Arthur says to his weary company, rubbing at his eyes himself. “It’s on the way. If we can make it there, we may be safer.”

            Sir Leon, who had been packing their supplies, nods at the prince. “Stone walls are better than no walls,” he adds, using his boots to kick out the remains of their fire.

            “I’m with the princess,” Gwaine states, sheathing his sword. “If we set off now, we can make it.”

            And so, they did. Hungry and tired, they continued to mark a path through the forest, jumping at every snapped twig and searching the canopy for any sign of death. Arthur marched at the front, sword at the ready, in case any bandits (not that anyone would be foolish enough to be wandering around in these dark times) tried to attack them.

            “Alright, princess?”

            Arthur sighs as Gwaine swaggers up beside him, hand resting lazily on the hilt of his sword. He wears his usual mischievous smirk, but something’s missing. His eyes are clouded over with anxiety, and his smile falters every so often, as if he does not possess the strength to hold it in place.

            “You can drop the nickname, Gwaine.” The prince soldiers on without turning to face his fellow knight. “Is there something you needed?”

            “Actually…” He ducks his head down, voice softening. “Yeah.”

            Arthur turns to face him then, frowning. “What is it?”

            “It’s about… Merlin.”

            The blond man stops suddenly, surprising his knights. His face empties of all emotion; only a flicker in his eyes as he stares straight ahead. It only takes a few seconds for him to recollect himself, and then he’s moving again, faster than before, sword swinging animatedly by his side.

            “Prince Arthur?”

            “What about him, Gwaine?”

            The troublemaker smiles sadly, kicking his boots against the leaves. “I’m worried about him.”

            “As am I.”

            “But princess-“ Arthur shoots him a glare, so Gwaine folds. “Arthur. He… What if he-“

            “Merlin will be fine,” Arthur supplies, knowing exactly where this conversation is heading. He did not want to hear Merlin’s name and _dead_ in the same conversation. Ever. Because it would not happen. It _couldn’t_.

            “But what if he isn’t?”

            “Gwaine,” he warns, and the knight remains silent. “Lancelot can get him back to Gaius. And Gaius will know what to do.” The prince looks his friend straight in the eyes, reflecting the distress swimming in them. “Merlin can’t die,” he says, stuttering on the last word. “I won’t allow it.”

            Arthur heaves a breath, rolls his shoulders, and marches on. 


	3. Chapter Three

_Cold_.

            It’s all he can feel. In ever pore, every cell – he is ice, he is frozen. His mind is consumed with chill, his fingertips itch for warmth – he shudders, he breathes, he shudders.

            Oh what he would give to be set alight right now.

            He can feel himself drifting away from it, every so often. He can’t tell whether this is a good thing, but he automatically feels himself sinking towards it. Towards reprieve, towards _comfort_ – _to die is easy_ , they said. _It is living that is hard_.

            He can no longer feel his lungs breathing. His body, this rimy vessel, is no longer his. It is a whole separate entity, beating weakly against life’s current. And Merlin, he is trapped within it, a frosty soul unable to escape the hell he’s been forced to live.

            He can no longer feel his heart beating. He is sure his blood must be solid, gelid, unmoving – like iron, like steel. But it must be molten still, molten despite _everything_. It is cruelly keeping him alive.

            He can no longer feel his mind moving. It’s a lump of meat sitting slovenly inside a crumbling skull. It’s a useless _thing_ that is doing nothing to save him. Nothing but throb with a perpetual _ache_ , nothing but _hurt_ until he’s _screaming_ -

            But none of this scares him the most. Not the fact he cannot feel, not even his lungs or his heart or his brain. Not the fact he is not sure if he is alive or passed on. Not even the fact there’s a chance he’ll be encased in this agony forever.

            No – what scares him the most, is that Merlin can’t feel his magic.

            With a silent wail, Merlin’s lungs stutter and choke.

 

*

 

Lancelot is holding Merlin upright when he starts struggling to breathe.

            “Gaius!” the knight calls, voice teetering on panic. The physician appears next to him, a fresh bowl of Hawthorne tea in his hands. “There’s something wrong. He… his breathing…”

            In one swift motion, the old man sets the tea aside, motioning for Lancelot to sit him up further. The warlock’s head lolls threateningly, limp as a doll. Gaius lifts his chin, listening to his breath, before moving his ear down to his chest. The sounds he hears are erratic – pained. “His lungs are beginning to seize up,” he confirms, helping Lancelot lay him back on the pillows. “They are struggling to support him. Come,” he says, moving to hold Merlin’s legs, “we need to move him to the cot by the fire.”

            After a few minutes of heaving and panting on Gaius’ part, the young man is positioned next to the fire, shivering all the more. “I don’t understand,” Lancelot sighs helplessly, hands falling to his sides. “He’s just getting colder. Why is nothing helping?”

            Gaius observes his ward morosely, using a hand to stroke his hair back. Lancelot can’t help but be moved by this fatherly gesture, and his expression softens as a pang of grief for the physician overwhelms him. “The cold is deep in his bones,” Gaius provides finally, eyes never moving from Merlin’s ashen face. “It’s inside him. I believe… I believe only strong magic could fix it.”

            Lancelot stares at the old man, eyes widening. _Strong magic_ …

            “Like Merlin’s magic?” he ventures, hope tickling the ends of his nerves. If Merlin’s magic was strong enough, then maybe with persuasion it could heal him…

            “Perhaps.” He gets to his feet, retrieving the bowl of Hawthorne infused water. “We cannot know for sure. No one has ever survived this.” Lancelot’s hope withers. “But then, no one has held out for this long.”

            The knight glances back down at his friend. The warlock sucks in another shuddering breath, choking on it as it makes it’s way out. _Come on Merlin_ , he urges, eyes bright with desperation. _You can fix this. I know you can_.

            He thinks he can see Merlin’s mouth twitch, but he cannot know for sure.

 

*

 

When the knight’s finally reach the fort, night is beginning to fall. The screams of the Darocha begin to fill the spaces between the stars, and every man shivers at the thought of the spirits.

            “Let’s get inside.” Arthur leads the way through the entrance, weaving in between pillars and finding themselves in a reasonable hall. Sir Leon strides over to a grate in the centre and begins to lie out wood for a fire. “Gwaine, light the torches. And Percival, get the supplies out. I need to see how much food is left.”

            While they get to work, Arthur’s mind once more wanders back to Merlin. He wonders if his servant has made it back to Camelot, or if he has _made it_ at all. He doesn’t want to think like this, but the state he handed Merlin over to Lancelot in… It makes his stomach churn just thinking about it.

            Despite his station, Arthur secretly cares greatly for his manservant. He knows his father would most likely disagree with his sentiments, and possibly many other nobles, but that did not stop the warmth that spread over him in Merlin’s presence. Seeing his friend harmed so terribly (and quite possibly fatally) has left a raw, empty feeling in the prince’s chest. If he were to lose Merlin – well, he is sure it would feel much like losing a limb. He just couldn’t imagine a life without his servant’s idiotic and incessant chatter.

            If someone were to give him the news that Merlin had in fact died on his trek back to Camelot, and all for Arthur’s sake, he wouldn’t want his last memory of him to be the pale, shivering heap that he had piled onto a horse. He didn’t want to see those red-rimmed eyes and bloodless lips when he pictured Merlin’s face. He wanted that carefree smile, full of banter and cheek, and those mirthful, twinkling eyes.

            Not that it mattered. Because Merlin wouldn’t die. Even if Arthur were never to see him again, even if at the end of this journey, he would be sacrificing his life to the Cailleach… Merlin would live. He would _not_ be meeting Merlin on the other side.

            Once the fire was set up and all the knight’s were settled around it, Percival begins to hand out the dried meat and bread from the satchel that Merlin had been carrying up until a few days ago. Silently, and without much vigour, they start to eat. It seems that most if not all of them were anything but hungry, and were only eating because they need to keep their strength up. Arthur planned to eat the bare minimum, not certain his stomach could manage much else.

            Eventually, the banter begins to play out, no one much enjoying the pressure of the silence and instead filling it will meaningless jokes about Gwaine’s feet and his burning socks, and Arthur watches them as they laugh, shoving each other playfully and throwing smiles around like rotten fruit. To an outsider, this scene would seem careless, of no consequence – merely a few knights satisfying their taste for humour. To the prince, it is forced. They’re quips are strained, their laughter hollow.

            After all, isn’t Merlin usually the instigator of their hysterics?

            Arthur turns to the side, watching the entrance to the hall. It is dark, empty. The wind whistles through it lazily, tossing up dust and leaves on the cold stone floor. He almost expects Lancelot to walk through, Merlin bouncing eagerly in tow – but it never happens. The space between the pillars remains empty, void of life, void of anything resembling a honourable, handsome knight and a clumsy, cheerful servant.

           

*  


Agravaine hurtles through the forest, wary of the danger this late at night but unwilling to let Morgana go without this news for long. It will satiate her for now, something to latch on to while Arthur makes his way to his death. He is almost gleeful himself – that pest of a servant had suspected him, he was sure of it.

            When he finally reaches her door, torch still blazing, he takes a moment to collect himself. The silence is normal – the Lady is probably asleep, and with her sister’s bracelet, she is no longer tormented with nightmares. Taking a deep breath and smiling to himself, he knocks gently on the door before entering.

            Morgana, eyes bleary with sleep, sits up in bed, leaves caught in her hair. The moment is brief, but Agravaine spots humanity in her gaze – no one could look evil while dreaming. With a few more blinks and an angry sigh, her expression sharpens into something more lethal, more volatile. She throws herself upright, and is gracefully on her feet within seconds.

            “What is it?” she demands, eyes burning with aggravation. “I take it you didn’t wake me for some meaningless drivel. It must be something important.”

            “Yes, m’lady,” he bows his head to her slowly, eyes closed with respect. Best to treat this as gently as possible – Morgana was ten times more irritable when tired.

            “Spit it out then!”

            “It’s Merlin,” he says, face twisting into a grin. “I have some news concerning him that may please you.”

            She raises her eyebrow, intrigued. Ever since poisoning her, Morgana has harboured a personal hatred for the servant – not to mention the fact that he is always in the way, always right behind Arthur, setting things straight. It is beyond irritating; sometimes her fingers itch to just squeeze the life from him with her bare hands. To clamp her nails around that pale neck… Oh, he makes her so _angry_.

            “Tell me,” she orders, using a hand to urge him on. She sits down at her table, motioning for Agravaine to sit. “Is he dead?”

            “No,” he answers, watching as her face falls. “But he might as well be.”

            “What do you mean?”  
            “I have received word that he was touched by the Darocha.” Morgana looks up, eyes wide. “Sir Lancelot returned him to Gaius just a night ago. He is not dead yet, but I do not think he is for this world much longer.”

            “No mortal has ever survived their touch,” the witch mutters, expression morbidly hopeful. “There’s no way he can survive it. His death will be slow, painful…”

            “Almost everything you could have asked for.” Agravaine removes his gloves, placing them on the table. “He will not be bothering us in the future.”

            “And Gaius,” Morgana continues, spreading her hands victoriously on the table, “how does he feel about this?”

            “I haven’t been to visit him personally but…” A smirk assaults him once more, creasing his skin cruelly and portraying his true nature. “I am certain this will break him.”

            “Soon, both Arthur and his servant will be dead, and Gaius too riddled by grief to serve his king,” Morgana concludes quietly, voice almost amused. “Camelot will be mine for the taking.”

            “You mean ‘ours’?” Avgravaine corrects with a hint of warning, but Morgana does not hear him – she is too busy plotting Uther’s demise.

 

*

 

Both Lancelot and Gaius take turns keeping vigil throughout the night, both prepared to wake the other if there is any change. Gaius, having spotted the knight’s head dipping with exhaustion upon awakening, sent him to sleep in Merlin’s room, and despite all the protesting, Lancelot was grateful for the rest – they were no use to the warlock fatigued.

            Gaius sits silently, worrying the hem of his tunic, eyes darting about the room for anything else to do. He had already mixed up extra potions, thrown more wood on the fire, and checked Merlin’s pulse and breathing – both were erratic and weak – and now, he has nothing to do but watch his ward die. It’s agonising, monitoring his every breath, grieved with the possibility that every one could be his last. Every time his chest falls, Gaius is gripped with a choking fear. His only reprieve is when it rises once more, and even then, it is brief.

            He wants to be busy. He can’t stand how helpless he feels – he has already spent each waking hour poring over books and papers in search of an answer he already knows is not there. If he did, no one would be dead. There would be no casualties. The only reason Merlin had held on this long was probably due to his magic.

            But in the end, would that be enough?

            Merlin’s magic had always been temperamental. In some cases, it had acted instinctually – like when Gaius had fallen and Merlin had stopped time to save him. Often it never required words – sometimes he had thrown people back in anger, or caught things flying off tables with one glare of his molten eyes. He didn’t have to be aware to use it, to utter words of magic. Gaius remembers clearly when he had sent the light to guide Arthur out of the cave early on in their relationship. His magic often acted on it’s own to protect people, to save them – would it do the same for Merlin? Would it heal him without words, without awareness?

            The physician sighs sadly, running a hand over his face. Even the boy himself was a self-sacrificing idiot. His magic would probably be the same. It would be useless, perhaps even stubborn, without a selfless incentive, without a purpose. Gaius leans over his ward, brow furrowed, deep in thought. “Merlin,” he murmurs, gripping the warlock’s wrist, “you can’t leave yet. Arthur needs you.”

            The warlock’s breath hitches, and Gaius freezes, waiting with bated breath. In the silence that follows, he isn’t sure what to think – the only thing he can see is Merlin’s face, skin a sickly grey mottled with a frosty blue, eyes sunken and inexplicably tired. His lips are parted slightly, chapped and white. Everything about it is _wrong_ – this is the face of a corpse, not a powerful warlock.

            Just as Gaius is beginning to panic, Merlin exhales, too slowly to be considered at all healthy. The physician breathes out, the air stuttering as he does so. He uses his thumb to find a pulse again, closing his eyes when he feels the faint, but ever-present, beat.

            He hadn’t expected much, but even the smallest sign of improvement would have given Gaius hope. He had thought at the mention of the prince’s name, Merlin, if he were still in there, would fight. That didn’t mean there wasn’t time to keep trying. He would stop at nothing, and if the prince could save Merlin, then Gaius would not give up.

After all, if Merlin lived for anyone, it was Arthur.

 


	4. Chapter Four

The Isle of the Blessed peers darkly through the fog, floating just ahead of Arthur’s line of vision. It’s a composition of jagged edges and shadows, indistinguishable but pulsing with foreshadowing all the same. The prince can’t help but be moved by a sense of drama – it looms like the silhouette of a man in the mist, mysterious and chilling.

            Once Arthur has paid the shrivelled figure on the boat a single coin, the knights pile themselves into the tiny vessel, and warily watch the hunched man push it out towards the isle. He had half expected the boat to sink, what with it’s rotting wood and fragile frame, but it held their weight, something Arthur was sure had everything to do with magic.

            As the men find themselves out on cool, silver waters, a terrible screeching can be heard, echoing through the clearing like passing thoughts. Gwaine shivers at the sound, clearly aware that it comes from no simple beast. Each knight grips his sword automatically, eyes sharpened with fear.

            Arthur’s mind once again travels to Merlin. He had been so desperate to come with them, had practically begged to accompany him with a voice no louder than the breeze. The prince frowns, remembering his servant’s desperation. Why had he wanted to come? Had he suspected of Arthur’s plan? Had he intended to stop him? He thinks back to the Darocha attack, how willingly Merlin had thrown himself in front of the deadly ghoul, intentionally placing himself between Arthur and the spirit. He had done it to protect the prince – to save him. Would he have done the same at the veil? Sacrificed himself in the royal’s place?

            Arthur knew Merlin’s loyalty went beyond that of servant, and probably went beyond that of a knight. Despite the many times Arthur had called him a coward, Merlin was anything but. He was inexplicably brave – or stupid, Arthur couldn’t decide – and he couldn’t count how many times Merlin had probably risked his life for him (and of course, there were many more times Arthur wasn’t even aware of).

            Sighing, the prince leant back against the edge of the boat, mind heavy with unanswered questions and fatal actions. Merlin had sacrificed himself for Arthur, and now Arthur was going to sacrifice himself for his people. He would never get to talk to the servant again.

            It was terrifying, thinking of this moment as his last hour.

            When the boat finally bumps against the harbour, Arthur is startled out of his reverie. Clearing his throat, he motions for the knights to step onto the isle, focusing on the clanking of their armour and not on the screams of the wyverns circling the ruins. It takes everything he has to supress the shiver that automatically courses through his body. He may be a knight, and possibly the best one of all – but his sword will do him no good this time. Prince or not; Arthur is scared.

            Silently and cautiously, the five men begin to walk to the tear between the worlds that birthed this hell to begin with.

 

*

 

Gaius is beginning to lose hope.

            When Lancelot had awoken at first daylight, he had sent the physician to sleep – but how could he? He had talked to Merlin all night, about Arthur, about his destiny, about dragon’s and servants and magic, and when he ran out of things to say, he told Merlin of the days when he was young, naïve, and a magic-user. He spoke of how things had been simple, of how lighting a hearth with your eyes was seen as the norm, of a Camelot where everything was just and everyone were equal. He had to make Merlin _see_ – he couldn’t die yet; he had so much left to do.

            But if Merlin could hear him, he wasn’t listening.

            The physician twists in his cot, blinking his eyes. He thinks about Merlin’s age, his young, raw age – has he experienced love? Has he ever met a lady who made his heart throb and his eyes glow (in a whole different way of course)? Had he ever considered children, grandchildren – has he even travelled farther than Ealdor? Gaius places his hands over his eyes. It isn’t _fair_ – his ward hasn’t even experienced _freedom_ , and he is going to die as Gaius watches helplessly from the side-lines.

            Eventually, grief and exhaustion nudge the old man into the world of restless slumbers.

            Outside, Lancelot dips a cloth into hot water and gently wipes down Merlin’s face. Chewing on his lip, he moves it to his shoulders, reaching down quickly to wet it again before dipping under his shirt and rubbing at his chest. Gaius had told him that if Merlin lived, he would still have to battle one heck of a cold, and so he was to ensure Merlin’s chest was kept warm and empty of fluid.

            Sitting him up, Lancelot pulls his shirt up over his head, dragging the hot cloth over his upper back and rib cage. He is startled for a moment by how frail Merlin looks, and decides that if they all make it through this, he will ensure Merlin eats more. The warlock shudders against the cold, ribs moving prominently beneath his pale flesh. The knight sucks in a breath and refreshes the cloth, continuing to rub it in small circles on Merlin’s bare chest and back.

            Pulling his shirt back down, Lancelot moves onto his hands and feet. His extremities are rigid with frost, blue at the tips. He carefully covers one of Merlin’s hands with the warm rag before lightly wiping his palm. After both hands, he caresses his feet, flinching at how he can even feel the chill of Merlin’s skin through the cloth.

            All of it feels futile. Through it all, his friend continues to shiver, eyes moving senselessly beneath closed lids. His breath comes out in short stutters and gasps, wheezing against the back of his throat. Sighing, the knight pours warm water into a mug and stirs in several Hawthorne flowers. With Merlin propped up against a stack of pillows, he slowly trickles it into his mouth, massaging his throat to help him swallow.

            There is nothing they can do. They have swathed him in blankets, burnt through forests of wood, and warmed him from the inside out with teas and broths that only serve to make him choke. Hawthorne does nothing for his circulation, none of Gaius’ potions ease his breathing, and Merlin’s face seems impossibly creased in pain despite all the medications the physician has administered. They are completely and utterly helpless, and Lancelot just wants to _scream_ , because he is a knight, a protector of Camelot – he did not come this far to simply watch his friend _die_.

            Lashing out in anger, the older man kicks at the leg of the cot, gritting his teeth and growling in anguish. The bed lurches, shifting Merlin suddenly, and the warlock lets out a whimper; the first sound he has made in days. The knight blanches, gripping his friend’s hand tightly. “Merlin?” There’s no further response, but Lancelot doesn’t give in. “Merlin. Merlin, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“ he sighs, bowing his head. “This is ridiculous,” the knight admits, laughing bitterly. “You just _cried out in pain_ and it gave me hope. How- how awful is that?”

            Dropping his head further onto their entwined hands, he is silent. The only sound in the room is the rhythmic crackling of Merlin’s breath. The knight’s shoulders begin to shake, and suddenly the deathly silence is punctuated with gasping sobs, with a heart breaking.

            Lancelot is a knight of Camelot. He is brave, honourable, and devoted. But in this moment, as he clings to a life that’s slipping away – Lancelot is scared.

 

*

 

Everyone anticipates the attack of the wyverns, but that doesn’t mean they’re prepared for it.

            Ducking, Percival slashes at the beasts, crying out when one nicks his arm. There’s shouting from all the men as swords whistle through the air, some landing blows, other’s slicing through the tension like it’s treacle. These creatures are near impossible to kill, and soon they are tiring, arms heavy with fatigue and dread.

            Leon turns to Arthur, who is eyeing another wyvern warily as it swoops. “Arthur!” The prince turns, eyes wide. “We’ll handle them!” he yells, gesturing to both Elyan and Percival as he says so. “Go on without us!”

            Nodding, Arthur swivels on his heel and rushes into the ruin, Gwaine milliseconds behind him. Immediately, the temperature drops, and both men begin to shiver despite all efforts to remain stoic. The atmosphere darken as they run, swords at the ready, and Arthur _swears_ this must be what death tastes like, the air horribly sour and thick. It isn’t long before they see it – it’s quite hard to miss – the tear in the veil, shimmering and twisting, emitting bloodcurdling screams and hollow sounds.

            A woman stands before it, cloaked in a dark material, eyes sunken and sad. A smile graces her features, and Arthur is tempted to call it sympathetic – but it can’t be. This is the Cailleach, and she will be the one to take his life.

            Cautiously, the future king takes a step forward, pointing the tip of his sword at the ghostly figure. “Are you the Cailleach?” he demands, and he finds his voice to sound much stronger than he feels. Uther must have instilled that in him – the act of appearing formidable when inside you want nothing more than to run.

            “I am,” she replies with a kind of subtle defiance. Her mouth twists with a grin. “It’s not often we have visitors.”

            “Put an end to this,” he says steadily, sword unwavering. “I demand you heal the tear between the two worlds.”

            The Cailleach’s eyes narrow, and Arthur supresses a shudder. “It was not I who created this horror,” she reasons, tilting her chin upwards. “Why should it be I who stops it?”

            The prince gulps, grip going slack on his sword handle. This keeper of the veil, this _creature of magic_ , wouldn’t have any sense of morality, of what is right and wrong. Like all magical beings, she will only do that which she gains from. Growling, Arthur thrusts his sword forward threateningly. “Is there no part of you that cares?”

            She tilts her head slightly, eyes burning with ferocity. She says nothing, but she does not need to. He knows there is only one way to end this – he has known from the moment he set out on this quest. Sighing, he sheaths his sword, eyes trained on the stone floor. “I know what you want.”

            “Do you?” Despite the question, the Cailleach seems unsurprised. “And are you willing to let me have it?”

            “I am prepared to pay whatever price is necessary.”

            She motions for him to approach her, and he notices a hunger creeping along the lines of her face. Sucking in a harsh, cold breath, he begins to walk towards her.

            And is stopped by someone’s sword.

            Wide-eyed, the prince turns to stare at Gwaine, who shoots him a knowing smirk. His eyes, however, are defeated. “I don’t think so, princess,” he says, stepping in front of Arthur, his sword still blocking his path. “You’re our king. We can’t have you dying.”

            “Gwaine-“

            “If you want to get to the veil, you’ll have to come through me.”

            Setting his jaw, Arthur draws his sword once more, determination mingling with fear in his expression. A voice in the back of his head, one that sounds awfully like Merlin’s, reminds him that never before has he beaten Gwaine in a fair fight. Gritting his teeth, he thrusts, ears ringing with the sound of metal against metal, the strength of one sacrifice against another.

            Arthur parries as Gwaine lunges at him, twisting with his sword so now his back is to the veil. Grunting, the knight uses all his strength to block Arthur’s next determined blow, deflecting it and sending him stumbling to the side. Growling, the prince rights himself, facing Gwaine with his sword once more. He charges him with passion, and their swords connect again, scraping and sliding at every kind of angle imaginable. The Cailleach watches them battle with a sadistic smile, already knowing the outcome of this fight.

            Turning sharply as Arthur jabs at him again, Gwaine uses the side of his sword to shove the prince backwards, causing him to momentarily lose his balance. Taking advantage of this, the knight slashes artificially at Arthur’s chainmail, so the blonde automatically flinches away and falls backwards. With one final push, Arthur is sent sprawling, Gwaine standing over him with the tip of his sword at his neck.

            “Gwaine-“ Arthur chokes out, staring up at his comrade. “What- what are you-“

            “I can’t let you die Sire,” the knight states bluntly, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Merlin would never forgive me if you didn’t return in one piece.” Arthur watches him, shocked, and barely notices as Gwaine knocks his sword from his hand. “You will be a great king Arthur,” he says loudly, his smile returning. “And I will be honoured to die for you.”

            Before the prince can react, Gwaine heads for the veil, pace quick and light. “No, Gwaine-“ Arthur scrambles to his knees, shuffling forward. “No you can’t- Gwaine!”

            The knight turns at the brink, a grin plastered on his face. He lifts his hand and drops his sword, and Arthur stares as it clatters hollowly on the stone. “Say hello to Merlin for me princess,” he shouts back, before turning and falling head first into oblivion.

 


	5. Chapter Five

When the veil closes, Merlin feels it.

            A sweep of fire rips through him in an instant, and he feels every cell of his flesh screaming. It scalds him thoroughly, eating up every inch of his bones until they’re brittle and charred, licking at his tongue like a kiss, crushing his organs in a suffocating whirlwind of heat.

            For a second, he almost wishes the cold would return.

            He can feel his fingers curling against the blistering heat coursing through his veins. It’s beyond intense, both a perpetual blaze and short crackling spurts of burning agony. It swells within him like the crest of a tsunami, and then crashes down on him until he is left battered and limp.

            He wonders vaguely if this is what it feels like to die on a pyre. It is something he has always feared – being burnt alive. He had always figured that when Arthur discovered his magic, this is how it would end – with him, writhing helplessly on a stake whilst the flames devoured him whole.

            Except, Arthur doesn’t know of his magic. The last thing he remembers is both of them laughing together. So why is he turning to ash?

            The fire laughs at him bitterly, chewing on the very meat of his muscles like a ravenous hound. He wants to cry out, to call for help, to _die_ , anything but this.

And then suddenly, the flames die out, and all Merlin can feel is the emptiness and crippling chill that’s left behind.

 

*

 

When Lancelot feels Merlin grip his hand, he’s pretty sure his heart stops.

            Looking up at the warlock, he watches his face crease suddenly in anguish; his nails dig into Lancelot’s palms with inexplicable strength; his skin flushes red as a fever. The knight lifts his hand to Merlin’s forehead, and practically yanks it back with a hiss. It’s like touching a sword that’s been left in the sun far too long.

            Gaius suddenly crashes out of his chambers, face pale. “The veil,” he stutters, hands moving wildly as he stumbles further into the room. “It must have closed. The Darocha, they no longer scream.”

            The old man rushes to the window, peering outside. The citadel is desolate – destroyed, but blissfully empty. Soon, individuals begin appearing in the square, confused but hopeful.

            “Arthur…” Gaius whispers, suddenly filled with dread. If they were safe, then that meant…

            Merlin would never forgive himself.

            Swallowing thickly, the physician turns back to face his patient. And that’s when he sees Lancelot’s expression, and Merlin’s _flushed cheeks_ – something is wrong, something is most definitely _wrong_.

            “Gaius,” the knight says, running a shaking hand through his hair as his gaze moves back and forth between the old man and his ward. “I don’t know what happened. He was as cold as a corpse, and then suddenly, his hands are moving, and he’s- he’s burning up.”

            Gaius moves closer to the cot, laying a palm on Merlin’s forehead. He has much the same reaction as Lancelot. “This must be because the veil has closed.” Gaius removes the cloth from the bucket at the knight’s feet. “Go and get some more water. Cold water, from the well.”

            Lancelot doesn’t have to be asked twice.

            With the room now void of all but his sick ward, the physician rushes to a shelf and begins flicking through the pages of a large tome. He rereads the page on the Darocha and the effects of their touch – and yes, they are as expected. But it says nothing about the opposite occurring once the veil closes. Cursing, the old man slams the book shut. He would have to make sense of this by himself.

            Gaius has barely crossed the room again when suddenly, Merlin’s eyes snap open.

            Oh, how Gaius had longed to see that cobalt – even if just once more. But it’s barely there – the warlock’s pupils have devoured all colours, leaving his eyes a frightened black surrounded by the thinnest strings of ice blue.

            “Merlin?”

            The only response is a gasp, and then Merlin’s coughing, choking on the very air around him. The physician stands there, mouth agape, before collecting himself and hurriedly lifting Merlin so he is sitting up. The warlock’s head flops hopelessly, but his chest continues to heave as he splutters and wheezes. Gaius fears he may pass out from lack of air, or vomit from the sheer force of it – but the deep, wracking coughs continue endlessly as the physician rubs and pats Merlin’s back.

            He’d known that if the chill passed, Merlin would be left with a horrible illness. No one can survive being at freezing temperatures for long without developing severe flu like symptoms. But Gaius had been watching out for signs of pneumonia or lung fever, and only the weakened rate of breathing had fit. Now, he has been gripped with a raging fever, and his lungs sound beaten and withered.

            When Lancelot bursts into the room with a bucket of water, Merlin is still doubled over trying to hack up his lungs. Horrified, the knight stands motionless in the doorway, bucket, swinging forgotten by his side. It isn’t until Gaius shrieks for him to give him the water that he is yanked from his state of shock – shaking, Lancelot drops the bucket on the physician’s table, dodging the slosh of water that spills over the edges.

            “What’s going on?” he yells anxiously over Merlin’s coughing. Gaius answers simply by motioning for Lancelot to take his place in holding the boy upright. Obeying, the knight watches as Gaius soaks the cloth with cool water, and lays it gently on Merlin’s neck.

            “Breathe, Merlin,” the old man orders, trying to look Merlin in the eyes. The warlock scrunches them up in pain, wheezing desperately between hacks. Gaius continues to massage his back, feeling Merlin’s lungs seizing beneath his fingers. “You need to breathe.”

            Eventually, the coughs begin to die down, but Merlin is starting to slump with exhaustion. Once he’s back to stuttering, pained rasps, both the men at his side help to carefully lay him down. Seizing an opportunity, Gaius lays an ear on the warlock’s chest. His lungs crackle like a fire, faltering at almost every breath.

            “I’m afraid he may have contracted a severe case of lung fever.” Lancelot watches Merlin as he blinks wearily in delirium, head tilted to the side. “When the veil closed, it released the hold of the Darocha on his body. But because he was below natural body temperature for so long…” Gaius closes his eyes, forlorn. “It means a sickness has taken hold in its place. I fear his life may still be at great risk.”

            Lancelot scowls, angry for his friend. “You mean to say, now he’s not dying from the cold, he’s dying from a fever?”

            Gaius looks up at the knight, expression solemn. “Yes.”

 

*

 

The knights trudge back through the woods morosely, horses being lead behind them, not one uttering a word. Gwaine – he usually filled the silence, and it seems wrong to replace it with different voices. And so on they march, at a loss for even the correct condolences.

            Arthur had sat there for several minutes after Gwaine disappeared into the veil, eyes wet with tears and mouth open in shock. The lost knight’s sword still lay abandoned on the cold floor, shimmering slightly. It took the prince all his strength to haul himself up, and all his courage to approach the weapon. He had swayed as he stood over it, watching the sword shine with morbid fascination. When he picked it up, the handle was still warm from when Gwaine had last held it – Arthur choked on the lump in his throat, cradling the blade to his chest.

            Gwaine – the knight who had once sworn all nobles to be bastards – had sacrificed himself for Arthur. Gwaine – the knight who spent most evenings in the tavern but most days protecting those he loved. Gwaine – the boisterous, humorous, courageous knight, whose laughter often meant merriment, and whose vows had solidly held true.

            Arthur could barely speak when the other knight’s rushed into the room, but they had all eventually drawn their own conclusions – what were they supposed to think, with the veil gone and Gwaine with it? What were the supposed to think, with their kind standing tearful, a lone sword in his hands? All had lowered their gaze, hands clasped in respect. Percival had raised a hand to his mouth, stifling the gasping sobs that escaped it.

            At this moment, Arthur had wondered how Merlin would react.

            And with that, the manservant became his next priority. He had to get back to him. He had to see him alive and kicking – he would not rest until he did.

            They had set off almost immediately, not wanting to stay on the isle for a second longer. The wyverns let them pass unscathed, as if they too knew of their grief. The boat journey back had been deafeningly quiet, and the trek through the forest even more so. It appeared the closer they came to Camelot, the more mute each of them became.

            It’s approaching nightfall when Arthur holds up a hand, Gwaine’s sword still clasped in the other. The knight’s begin preparing camp wordlessly, dishing out dried meat and berries and then chewing on them quietly. Everything is tasteless. And then –

            “When we get back…” Percival’s voice slices through the silence like it’s nothing but butter. “He’ll… He’ll get a proper burial, yes?”

            Arthur watches him with nothing but sorrow in his gaze. “As close to one as it can be. Because we don’t have…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but they all know what he’s getting at. _We don’t have a body_. Leon looks down at his hands, forehead creasing like paper.

            “We can lay our cloaks on a fire,” he says finally, his face still turned to the earth. “And his sword on top of them. It will show our respect for his sacrifice.”

            The prince nods, but he is not pleased. They shouldn’t have had to prepare anyone’s burial but his. It had been his sacrifice to make. Not Gwaine’s. And now… Now he had lost a friend.

            And it hurt so much more than the anticipation of giving his own life.

            “Sire…” Arthur turns to face Elyan, who is looking a little nervous. “Did he… Say anything? To you? … Before?”

            Arthur nods, worrying the edge of his cloak. “Yes. He said to say hello to Merlin for him.” The other knight’s nod – of course Gwaine would say something like that. Suddenly, Arthur stands, expression set in determination. “And we will. If we do anything, it will be to obey Gwaine’s last request.” He tugs out his bedroll, spreading it out on the ground robotically. “We will ride for Camelot at first light. The path is not far from here. I want to be there before nightfall.”

 

*

 

“Ar’… hur?”

            Gaius stares wide-eyed at his ward, hand frozen halfway to his forehead. Recovering, the physician lays a his palm on Merlin’s feverish brow, his eyes filling with tears at the blistering heat he feels there. Sighing shakily, he looks back at the warlock, watching him turn his head in delirium.

            “Ar…” his eyes open to slits, pupils still blown wide. Gaius levels with his head, placing a cool cloth on his chest. “Ar’hur?”

            “No Merlin, it’s Gaius.” His ward’s only response is a weak cough. The old man sits up again, dipping the rag in cool water and then laying it on Merlin’s forehead. There had been no change since that morning – if anything, the rattling of Merlin’s lungs had got worse. And each time Gaius laid a hand on his forehead, he could swear the fever was worsening. It could just be a physician’s paranoia, however…

            _Knock knock._

            Jumping, Gaius’ hand retracts quickly from Merlin’s clammy skin. He eyes the door warily just as Lancelot appears from the bedroom, Merlin’s book of magic in his hand. The old man makes a vague gesture with his hand, and Lancelot quickly conceals it under a stack of books by the fireplace. Clearing his throat, Gaius calls for the intruder to enter, dipping the cloth in the water once more before reapplying it to Merlin’s burning skin.

            “Am I interrupting anything?”

            Gaius turns to see Agravaine standing hesitantly in the doorway, an awkward grimace twisting his features. He doesn’t know why, but something about the lord unnerves him. His facial expressions always seem ambiguous, as if he’s concealing something far darker than simply the pretentious characteristic that comes with nobility. “No, m’lord,” he says distractedly, eyes drifting back to Merlin. “What can I do for you?”

            “I heard your ward had come to harm.” He steps further into the room, peering at the thin figure of the servant. “Was it the Darocha?”

            “Yes.” Gaius refreshes the cool compress. “Though now, it’s lung fever. He survived the cold – miraculously – but it’s left him… gravely ill.”

            Agravaine nods, coming to stand next to the cot. Merlin looks past hope, his bones shaking violently against the sheets of the bed, his eyes flickering feverishly beneath his lids. Every breath appears to stutter noisily through his dry lips, and every few seconds, the air seems to clog in his throat. The traitor feels the urge to smile, and as if on cue, the young servant begins to gag, chest heaving sharply in an attempt to seize every last morsel of oxygen. With Lancelot’s help, the physician pulls him up right, circling his back as he coughs – each one wetter and more forceful than the last. Merlin gasps between them, eyes tightly shut, trying and failing to breathe. Gaius can feel tears pricking his corneas when the hacking finally begins to subside; leaving Merlin slumped forward with exhaustion, spine protruding visibly in his neck.

            Agravaine turns away, letting a smirk tug at his mouth. Merlin may yet survive this, but even Gaius was doubtful. Taking a second to revel in this small victory, the lord swivels back to face Gaius, an artificial look of concern gracing his countenance.

            “I’m sorry Gaius,” he says finally, dropping his head in mock sadness. “This is an awful turn of events.”

            “Yes.” The physician appears not to be listening as he lays Merlin back down, watching woefully as Lancelot slowly drips water into Merlin’s open mouth.

            “I’m sure many will be sad to see him go.”

            “ _If_ he goes,” Lancelot interrupts.

            “Yes of course.” Agravaine observes them both silently, hands clasped in front of him. Gaius appears to be completely absorbed in stroking his ward’s hair, past propriety and openly displaying his affection for the boy. Sir Lancelot, a man who had slipped into knighthood despite social standing (Agravaine sneered internally at the thought) seems to be equally worried, gaze fixed on the cup he holds and attention devoted entirely to the task at hand. Morgana had been right – Merlin’s death would break Gaius, and possibly many more than just the physician. In fact… “Even Prince Arthur himself will be upset I expect… If he is alive that is.”

            Gaius’ head snaps up at his, suddenly alert. “Of course he’s alive. Why wouldn’t he be?”

            “Well, you heard what he said before he left.” Agravaine moves around the cot as he eyes Gaius with a grim expression. “He intended to sacrifice himself at the veil. And now the veil is closed. Surely you can draw your own conclusions from this?”

            The old man stares at the lord, mind reeling. Of course… He’d completely forgotten about Arthur’s intentions, too consumed with agonising over Merlin. If the prince really had sacrificed himself, then what did that mean for Camelot?

            “Arthur can’t be dead – he’s the – “

            “Heir to Camelot’s throne, yes.” Agravaine can feel himself fretting with joyous anticipation, but easily conceals it with a concerned nod. “Which means Camelot’s future may be at stake. Have you checked on the king recently?”

            “King Uther is not fit to rule.” The lord already knew this, but it felt so much better hearing to from the physician. “Which means – “

            “The decisions may fall to me.”

            Gaius blinks confusedly, gaze drifting to the opposite wall. When had things become such a mess? Merlin’s condition had occupied his mind up until now, but with the king unfit to govern, and the prince potentially lost… more than Merlin’s life is at risk.

            The whole of Camelot could be doomed.

            “Morgana…” Gaius mutters, voice weak. Agravaine almost jumps at the name, but stops himself, allowing himself to fantasise about telling the witch Merlin’s condition later that night. “Her plans, they’ve always failed since now. But… now – “

            “Do not worry Gaius,” the lord interrupts, bowing respectfully to the old man, “I will not let Camelot fall. I promise I will do all I can to protect it.”

            And with that lie, Agravaine turns and marches purposefully from the room.

 

*

 

The knights were still riding when the darkness began to suffocate the Earth like the brutal hands of God. Leon had spoken up about setting up camp for the night, but the prince had ordered them to press on, determination stronger than steel. Soon enough, they began to see Camelot’s tall silhouette on the horizon, and as if on instinct, the pounding of hooves on sod quickened, all anxious to get home.

            Arthur’s mind has been jumping between Gwaine and Merlin the entire trip back. One moment, he is grieving for the loss of a dear knight, and the next, he is gripped with a fear for his manservant, who he may grieve for yet. His mind is spinning with despair, and the whirling is beginning to hurt, his muscles aching with fatigue and his stomach churning with nausea. He needs some good news right now, but he has a horrible feeling he may be asking for too much. After all, despite the absence of ghostly howling, death still lingers in the very air they breathe.

            “Sire?”

            “We’re not stopping, Leon,” the prince snaps back automatically, not even turning to face his friend. “The citadel is close. We keep riding.”

            “No, I know Sire, it’s just… your horse.”

            Arthur directs his attention at his steed, and understands. “The horses are tiring,” he admits flatly, almost wincing at every forced breath the mare takes. “Stop!”

            After about a minute, they’ve all slowed from a gallop to a halt. “We’ll water the horses,” Arthur says to the group, dismounting. “But we’re only stopping for a short amount of time. Got it?”

            There’s an empty chorus of ‘yes sires’ and then everyone’s pouring water into the muzzles of stallions before lapping it up greedily themselves.

            Arthur stands, stoic, next to his own horse when Elyan sidles up beside him. They spend a moment just standing, quietly appreciating each other’s company. The prince is thinking about ordering the party to move forward prematurely when the knight speaks up.

            “You’re worried about Merlin.” It’s not a question, but a statement. Arthur turns to him, face blank.

            “Yes.”

            “What do you fear the most?”

            Arthur feels he should be surprised that the knight is speaking so directly to him, but he doesn’t. Now is not the time for etiquette. Arthur feels he shall never fully appreciate decorum again.

            “I…” for the first time in a while, the prince lets his façade fall. His entire figure adopts a melancholic somnolence, the effects of the quest’s events displayed clearly on his face. “I’m scared we’ll get back, and Lancelot will meet us at the gate. He’ll say Merlin died days ago, and the burial was soon after. I’m scared when I wake up the next morning, Merlin won’t be there. No – I’m scared _someone else_ will wake me up the next morning – Merlin always wakes me up, he always says ‘rise and shine’ – he’s always there – “

            He feels a pressure on his shoulder as Arthur hides in his hands, and the two men lapse into silence once more. After a minute or so, the prince stands straight again, and Elyan’s arm falls back to his side. The knight says nothing, because he knows no comfort will reach Arthur – the man needs to see his servant alive before he’ll allow himself to relax. The take another moment to rest, finding comfort in their shared misery, before they are mounting their horses once more, swords heavy at their sides.

            Because in the end, no words can bring a man back from despair. Arthur knows this more than anyone.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

Night falls. Gaius loses hope.

            With each second that passes, Merlin grows weaker – his pulse slowing, his fever rising, his breathing quieting – and both the knight and the physician have resigned themselves to sitting by his side, wetting his forehead with morose expressions.

            “Gaius – “ Lancelot squeezes his eyes shut, hands faltering. “This can’t be the end Gaius. He’s spoken about bringing magic back to Camelot – “

            “This could be what brings it back,” the old man replies, though his voice is anything but joyful. “This could be… could be what unites…”

            “No,” the knight argues, and Gaius can’t help but agree with him. How on earth would Merlin’s death unite Albion? The Great Dragon spoke of the greatest sorcerer and the once and future king walking the Earth together, bringing peace and prosperity. How could they do that if Merlin was dead?

            “You’re right,” Gaius replies, jaw set and sturdy. “He has to pull through. We just… we just have to be patient.” Lancelot nods, soaking his cloth once more in cool water and wiping his friend’s forehead. The warlock flinches away from him, shivering. “Lancelot – I need you to go to the kitchens and ask for ice. Take anything you can get.” The knight stands, moving towards the door. “Oh, and some broth. He’s going to need food if he is to fight this.”

            “I’ll bring some bread back for you and I, Gaius,” he said with a soft smile, eyes dull and weary. “We’re not much used to him starving either.”

            Lancelot left the room quietly, and the old man turned back to his ward, his life held between his weathered and able fingers.

 

*

 

The group of knights burst into the citadel just before dawn, when the sky is a tender and lyrical blue, and the streets are still cool and damp from dusk. The horses’ hooves tap out a ballad on the cobblestones as they gallop across the courtyard, every knight’s mind preoccupied with the servant that lies within the castle walls.

            “Leon, tell my father I have returned,” the prince orders, swinging down swiftly from his horse. “I will be up to see him shortly. Percival, take the horses to the stables. And Elyan – I suspect you shall want to check on your sister.”

            “Thank you Sire,” the young knight replies, slipping gratefully from his horse. “Will you be seeing – “

            “Yes.” He marches off towards the physician’s chambers, cloak swirling behind him, a deep maroon in the darkness of the night. He stops suddenly, before turning once more to face his disbanded party. “Thank you,” he says, bowing his head. “For always risking your lives for Camelot.”

            “No.” Leon steps forward, an armoured arm held to his chest. “We do it for you, Arthur.”

            The prince doesn’t acknowledge his knight’s lack of propriety, instead choosing to clasp his hands before him, mouth thinned into a line. There’s a moment of silence, and then Arthur spins slowly and continues his journey to Merlin’s cot.

            He becomes lost in his thoughts in the castle halls, gripped with a terrifying anticipation of what he might find in Gaius’ chambers. They’d been gone for days; he’d lost a fellow knight, and now, he may walk in to the room at the end of the corridor to find another man lost to mortality.

            He isn’t sure if he can handle it.

            Sighing and running filthy fingers through his matted hair, the prince stops outside the door, taking a moment to breathe. He draws in a substantial volume of stale air – chokes – and then raises a hand to tap lightly on the door. There’s a scrape of a chair, shuffling, and then –

            “Prince Arthur?”

            The old man looks exhausted, his pale hair scraped back and tangled on his head, his cheeks red with endeavour and hands shaking with effort. Arthur stares, and Gaius stares back – the former, in speechlessness, and the latter, in shock. The prince clears his throat, chainmail ringing against his arms. “I’m here to see Merlin. Can I – come in?”

            The physician steps aside, bustling back into his chambers and towards a small figure on the bed. At first, Arthur doesn’t recognise his manservant – only sees an emaciated, sickly boy shuddering and gasping on sheets of white – and then, with stuttering reality, his eyes widen, and his knees grow weak with melancholy. No, Merlin isn’t dead, but he doesn’t look far from it.

            “Gaius,” the prince says warily approaching the cot. “Please, how on earth did he get this way?”

            The physician swallows thickly, dipping a rag into a basin and positioning it under Merlin’s neck. “He came in cold, sire,” he begins, subconsciously carding a hand through his ward’s hair. “He just got colder and colder – no fire, no drug, no blanket could stop it.” Arthur could hear the pain in the old man’s voice and he described the events leading to this moment. “And then, there was a shift, in the air – I think everyone felt it – and the Darocha left, and then, Merlin, he had a fever. It turned, so suddenly – “ he takes a breath, closing his eyes. “I believe it to be lung fever or something of the sort. A reaction to his exposure to the cold.”

            “Has his condition improved at all? Since the veil closed?”

            Gaius hung his head, solemn. “No Sire. It’s been worsening.”

            The prince turns away from his servant, arms raised in a king of surrender. A quiet, distressed sound seems to erupt from him, and then he’s facing Gaius once more. “His chances?”

            The old man leans heavily on the side of the cot, lip trembling. There’s a minute shake of his head, and then Arthur’s world shatters into pieces of broken glass. “No. He can’t – “ Both men stand there, stock still. “He’s lasted this long. That has to count for something!”

            “I’m afraid, in saving him, we may have cruelly prolonged his life.”

            “We are not cruel, not for trying to save him – the sorcerer who did this, the sorcerer…” He falls into the nearest chair, head in his hands. “Sorcery. Sorcery has done this. It is sorcery that is cruel.”

            Gaius bites his lip, trying not to retaliate. He couldn’t say anything now, not with Merlin lying on his deathbed between them. Suddenly, Arthur’s head snaps up, and he stares at Gaius once more.

            “Where’s Lancelot?” he asks, eyes darting about the room. “I sent him here, I can’t imagine he would have left – “

            “I sent him for ice and broth Sire,” he answers, looking a little guilty. “I know he is just a mere servant, but – “

            “Don’t say that,” the prince growls, clenching his fists. “Never that. He saved my life, Gaius.” The physician nods, understanding. “Is there anything else you will need?”

            The old man looks reluctant to ask, but he can’t pass up this opportunity to potentially save his manservant. “A bath, Sire,” he admits, wringing his hands. “A bath and cool water. I want to bathe him to lower his fever.”

            “You shall have it,” he says, standing once more. “I will summon someone to bring it to you. For now, I must attend to my father. I shall check up on him at the next opportunity.” He makes to leave, but Gaius stops him.

            “Arthur, wait – “ the prince turns, an eyebrow raised. The physician swallows again, nervous. “The veil,” he says finally, worrying the hem of his sleeve, “the sacrifice required to close it. Who…?”

            Arthur’s expression becomes pained as his gaze is thrown back into the past, into the screaming of ghosts and the crying of men, into the clashing of swords and the grave sacrifices. His hand drifts to his hilt again, almost out of habit. “Gwaine,” he responds finally, and Gaius sucks in a breath. “He fought me. And you know how, against him, I never win.”

            And with that, the prince turns and leaves the chambers, hatred roiling beneath his skin for having to spread the contagion of grief.

 

*

 

“Arthur!”

            Gwen throws herself into her love’s arms, eyes closed with contentment. He had been surprised she was not attending to his manservant, and wondered just how devoted she now was to his father. “I’m so glad you’re alive. I saw the other knights ride in through the window – where’s Merlin?”

            Elyan freezes behind her, eyes locked with Arthur’s. Gwen stiffens, stepping back from the prince. “Arthur?”

            “Do… Do you not know?” Gwen shakes her head, worrying her lip. “Gwen, he… he returned here days ago. He fell victim to the Darocha – “ there was a sharp intake of breath, “ – and Lancelot brought him back. He has under Gaius’ care ever since.”

            “What?” The maid flings her head over her shoulder, staring at her brother, before turning back to Arthur. “Why was I not told?”

            “I don’t know – “ he hasn’t finished his sentence before Gwen is hurrying from the room, dress flying out behind her. Arthur turns back to Elyan, who is looking more than a little awkward. “She’s been okay?”

            “She said someone knocked her out a few nights ago, but that she is unharmed.” Arthur nods, grateful. “I’ll leave you alone with your father, Sire.”

            Arthur approaches the chair by the fire as Elyan silently leaves the room, armour clanking against the stone floor. He can just about see the top of the king’s head, hair grey and unruly against the back of the seat. The prince comes to sit in the armchair next to him, arms on his knees. “Father?”

            The broken man looks sideways at this son, eyes clouded and empty. “Arthur,” he breathes, relief tangible in his whisper. “You’re back.”

            “Yes, of course,” the prince replies, grasping his father’s hand in his own. “Of course I am back.”

            “You were gone for so long…”

            “I will always return,” he says, smiling thinly. “I promise. I will always serve the king. I will always serve Camelot.”

 

*

 

Gwen throws herself against the door of Gaius’ chambers, not bothering to knock, and found herself stumbling upon an intimate scene between knight and servant. Lancelot had been slowly pouring broth into Merlin’s mouth, only stopping to look up at the maidservant. “Gwen,” he says, surprised. “Did Arthur tell you?”

            The young woman struts over to the bed, fuming. “What I want to know,” she starts, swiping the bowl from Lancelot’s hands, “is why you didn’t tell me he was sick!” The knight watches, bewildered, as Gwen slips the warm fluid into Merlin’s slack mouth with far more ease than he. She gently rubs her friend’s throat, coaxing him to swallow. “You should have summoned me _immediately.”_

            “Gwen?” She looks up as Gaius enters the room with a bucket of water, and pours it into the bath by the fire. She hadn’t even notices it there. “I’m so sorry we didn’t tell you. We were just so preoccupied with Merlin.”

            She nods, understanding. “Is there anything you need Gaius?”

            “If you would help me fill this will water,” he says, gesturing to the metal bath, “and then we can get him settled in, to lower his fever.” It’s then that she spot the ice cubes within it, gently bobbing on the surface. She frowns, placing the half empty bowl on the table. “It will most likely rouse him, but it should be effective.”

            It takes another ten minutes to sufficiently fill the bath, with another trip back to the well, and then Lancelot lifts a limp Merlin into his arms and gently lowers him into the water. They decide not to remove his clothes (a trivial task compared with the importance of lowering the sick warlock’s temperature), and almost upon immediate contact with the icy water, Merlin gasps, bucking, and weakly struggles against the hands holding him down.

            Gwen hushes him, stroking his hair as he becomes completely submerged in the water. The boy’s shuddering becomes violent, his teeth chattering and his breaths stuttering from his bloodless lips in short wheezes. Soon, his eyes are open, blinking blindly about the room, a whimper escaping from him as he shivers.

            He says nothing, though no one had expected him to – only moans painfully and beats against the cold water. Eventually they are all trying to comfort him, gathered round in a circle to support their dying friend. “It’s alright Merlin,” Gaius soothes, rubbing his ward’s feverish back, “This will make it better, this will make it better.”

            He winces as the boy heaves, body rejecting what little he has eaten. Perhaps the ice had been too much – the physician holds him upright as he retches, Gwen quickly catching it in a basin from the floor. It takes Merlin a while to bring much up, too weak to even vomit properly, but soon he is empty again. He collapses against the back of the basin, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

            The three wait for a few more minutes in silence, basin forgotten and sitting by the hearth. Then, the physician sighs, stretching his limbs and standing upright. “I’ll go get him some fresh clothes,” he states dejectedly, not meeting any of their gazes. “Lancelot, if you could begin undressing him – “

            It takes a lot of effort to yank to wet clothes off, and they spend little time drying him, allowing the water to cool naturally on his skin. Gwen averts her eyes, protecting her friend’s modesty. Gaius returns with the clothes, expression morose, and only pulls on some trousers, leaving his top half bare. The warlock pants shallowly, rib cage prominent underneath his ashen flesh. “Gaius,” Gwen mumbles nervously, hands curled against her dress. “Will he make it?”

            The old man exchanges a meaningful look with Lancelot, sitting down beside the cot. “Only the morning will tell, Gwen. Only the morning will tell.”

 

*

 

Arthur had returned to his chambers to sleep, finding himself utterly exhausted after the talk with his father. Agravaine had passed him in the corridor, looking beyond shocked and perhaps even a little scared. “Prince Arthur,” he had stuttered, hands waving erratically, “I am so glad you have returned! Pray tell, who died at the veil?”

            The prince had slipped into an uneasy sleep, dreaming of corpses and ice, of the cackling Cailleach and the shrieking Darocha. He woke many times, far from lucid, before sinking back into his nightmares. He was vaguely aware that morning came and passed, and it was only just past noon that he yanked himself sharply from the sheets, teeth gritted with pain, eyes darkening with sorrow.

            Arthur blinks, head pounding and skin crawling, feeling something amiss. He soon finds it; a servant bustles quietly around his room in the darkness, curtains still drawn, allowing the prince to sleep. Merlin, he would have awoken Arthur with a clatter, or a “rise and shine!” and he would have thrown his goblet or his pillow at the idiot’s grinning face. But now it had to be afternoon – this servant had politely left him to sleep, aware of his late return to Camelot, busying himself with cleaning his chambers and arranging his breakfast with impossible quietness.

            “Sire!” The man stands erect, stopping what he’s doing and placing his hands behind his back. “Good morning, Sire. I have delivered your breakfast, polished your armour, tidied your chambers, and finished your laundry. Is there anything you require?”

            Arthur shakes his head, more out of bewilderment than declination. He sits up in bed, hair tousled and hands fumbling for purchase on the sheets. “No,” he says finally, voice weary. “You are dismissed.”

            “Yes, Sire.”

            Not long after his replacement servant has left, there is a knock on the door. With permission to enter, a guard steps inside the room, shifting his feet anxiously.

            “Yes?”

            “Everyone is required in the throne room, Sire, to discuss the fate of the kingdom.” Arthur nods, rolling out of bed. The guard takes his queue to leave as the prince disappears behind his divider, pulling a shirt and some trousers with him. It’s a small struggle, pulling on his clothes without assistance, but he’d rather do it alone than with another manservant. Pulling on his boots, he marches out of his chambers, walking smartly but quickly to the throne room.

            When he arrives, everyone of the court is in fact there. Even Gaius – the prince frowns at the physician, but the older man does not face him, choosing instead to stare directly at his feet. Arthur takes a seat, watching his most trusted knights stand before him. “So,” he begins, more than a little distracted, “we are here to discuss the disposal of the dead, the cleaning of the streets, and the fate of the families of the deceased. First, I need a list of the victims. Please begin.”

            The discussion lasts several hours, and all the while Gaius remains silent, clearly wanting to return to his ward. The prince himself wants to check up on his manservant, and is tempted to dismiss the court earlier, but deep down he knows as regent he must attend to his people. The sky is beginning to darken outside when the talks draw to a close – the people of Camelot will receive rations from the citadels granary until they can find their feet, and a team of knights have been put in charge of disposing of the corpses littering the cobblestones. Within seconds of the dismissal, Arthur summons Gaius to him, taking note of his strained features as he approaches the prince.

            “Gaius,” he says, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I am sorry to keep you. Tell, me, what of Merlin?”

            The physician looks up at him, something foreign stirring in his eyes – Arthur watches as he fights with the words in his mouth, expression a cross between fear and resignation. “I’m sorry, Arthur,” he murmurs emptily, face aging several years. Something clenches in the prince’s stomach as he meets Gaius’ despondent gaze. “But Merlin passed away this morning.”

            Arthur feels himself hear him, feels himself frozen – and then the room is cold as ice, cold as death, cold as Merlin.


	7. Chapter Seven

When Arthur goes to visit him, he’s on his way to being numb.

            He sees him on the cot, a stationary form with a sheet drawn across it. At first, he’s reluctant to pull it back, because if he keeps the body hidden, it could be anyone. It could be a knight, or a sickly peasant, or even a noble – anyone but Merlin.

            But he does, eventually – for his friend. Because he hadn’t been able to say goodbye. Because he respects Merlin more than that. Because he wants to see him one last time.

            He regrets it.

            When he pulls the sheet back, Merlin’s cold, motionless face hits him like a storm, his lips blue, his eyelids sunken; Arthur is aware of pressing a hand to his mouth as he realises that Merlin is dead. He looks more dead than Arthur has ever seen anyone, and it makes him feel sick to his stomach.

            He must have started shaking at some point because Gaius is guiding him into a chair, his own withered gaze coming to meet the prince’s. Arthur stares back, shell-shocked. Merlin, his bumbling, omnipresent manservant, has been torn away from him by magic.

            No. By Morgana Pendragon.

            Never before has he wanted so much to see his sister dead.

            “Sire,” Gaius begins, possibly about to say something comforting, but soon he himself is lost for words. Shaking his head, he moves over to Merlin’s room, retreating into the dark depths and returning with a letter in hand. “Arthur.” He tries again, coming to stand by the blonde’s side. “Merlin, he wanted you to have this, if he ever… if he ever couldn’t tell you himself.”

            Arthur takes the letter in his hand, staring and the scrawling loop of his manservant’s handwriting on the front. _Prince Prat_ , it reads, and Arthur can’t supress a smile.

            He takes the letter back to his room, clasped tightly in between his fingers, and doesn’t dare open it until he is ready. He removes his boots; he lights his fire; he chew emptily on a piece of bread from the kitchens. He quietly completes all of Merlin’s jobs. Then, in a chair by the fire, he slices the letter open with only his thumb.

            The writing is neat, revised, but still written with vigour. He touches the curls of his letters, silent.

 

_Arthur,_

_If you are reading this, it means I am no longer by your side. I am sorry for this, but you must know everything I ever did was to protect you, clotpole or no. You must know this, before you read on._

_I’m going to tell you a story, about a little boy born in Ealdor. His father had left his mother with child a long time ago, on the run from a king with a grudge against him. She gave birth to him in a small hut, on the dirt of the floor. Her name was Hunith, and she named him Merlin._

_Soon it became apparent that Merlin was different. His mother would be busying herself, and then things would be flying across the room, dancing in the air. And whenever she looked down into her baby’s cot, his eyes were shining gold._

_Yes Arthur. I was born with magic._

_I was unlike other magic users. I could use it without speaking any words. It frightened my mother, because she knew the people of Ealdor would be frightened of me. She kept it hidden from everyone. Yet one day, my best friend Will found out – I hope you remember Will, because not only did he die for you, but he died for me. He covered for me that day in Ealdor, so that I could continue serving you._

_Nevertheless, when my mother found out, she sent me to Camelot – to Gaius, an old friend of hers. She hoped he would help me control my magic. However, within several days, I found myself before the Great Dragon, who spoke of a destiny I had to fulfil – the destiny of The Once and Future King, and The Greatest Warlock to Ever Live._

_That’s you Arthur. And, that’s me._

_It is my destiny to serve and protect you, to help you become the great king you are destined to be. You and I are meant to unite Albion and bring magic back to the land. And I have protected ever since that day with Lady Helen, do you remember? The king assigned me your manservant. God, I was horrified. You were such a_ prat.

_So I want you to know this. Even without the destiny, even without the magic, I would still protect you. Because you’re a great man Arthur, and you will be a great king. And I consider you my friend._

_I hope you won’t hate me Arthur, for lying to you. I’m sorry. I won’t say I had to, despite the death sentence that comes with magic, but I hope you can understand. This does not mean I didn’t trust you. I suppose in a way, it was another way to protect you._

_I suppose you’re now thinking about all the times a branch suspiciously fell, or a sword hilt burnt a bandit’s hand, or perhaps a rock fall crushed many soldiers. Yes, that was me. All those mysterious monsters and mythical creatures that attacked Camelot and then died – yep. And, as much as I hate to say it, I knew about Morgana long before anyone else. I couldn’t tell you, because you’d have had my head. I shielded her from you in secret._

_No, I’m not asking for credit. I just know you’d be fuming if I didn’t tell you how many times I’ve saved your royal behind._

_Also, I just_ had _to get you back for all those times you called me an idiot/useless/clumsy. You cabbage-head._

_There is one more thing I think you must know. Do you remember the Great Dragon that attacked Camelot? His name is Kilgarrah, and no, he is not dead. The man who ran from Ealdor, while my mother was with child – his name was Balinor. My father was the last dragonlord, and upon his death, I inherited his power. I sent the dragon from Camelot, only ever to return at my command. I couldn’t kill him Arthur, I didn’t have it in me. I’m sorry for all the lies._

_I obviously don’t know how I died, but I hope I have not caused you too much trouble. I hope you can forgive me for everything. And I hope that now you can see that magic can be used for good – it is not magic that is evil, only the hearts of men._

_I hope that with my death I have fulfilled my destiny. I hope that you will live to a ripe old kingly age, and that peace can now fall over Albion._

_I have said it once and I will say it again: I’m happy to be your servant, until the day I die._

_And now that day has come._

_Goodbye Arthur. If your friendship is anything to go by, you will be a well-loved king._

_Merlin._

 

Arthur stares at the words. He lays the letter in his lap. And he cries.

 

*

 

It’s months later when King Uther falls. Arthur sheds only some tears, and then he steps up to the throne, kneels down onto the marble, and lets the crown be set on his head.

            All the knights remember Gwaine. The speak of him like a legend; reminisce over all his drunken nights and hung-over days. When Arthur sets up the round table, he leaves a chair empty. But what almost every warrior notices, is that he pours his own wine. He ties his own boots. He sharpens his own sword. He has a servant, yes, but he is ordered to do the bare minimum. Arthur couldn’t face waking up to someone other than Merlin.

One the second week of his reign, the king gathers the nobles in the court. He makes eye contact with Gwen, with Leon, and then with Gaius. He clears his throat, straightens his papers, and addresses the room with a large voice.

“We lost a brave man recently, an honourable man.” Several men bow their heads, remembering Sir Gwaine. “He wasn’t a knight, and he wasn’t a noble.” Gaius’ head snaps up. “He was a servant. And not only was he a servant, but he was a sorcerer.”

There’s collected murmuring, and Gwen closes her eyes, fists clenched. Arthur had told her everything, but that didn’t make this any easier. She had lost Merlin, her best friend. Nothing would make this easier.

“In fact, he was a powerful sorcerer. One of the most powerful. A warlock. And yet, he was nothing but loyal – he did not have a single traitorous bone in his body. He protected and served the kingdom until the day he died.

“Merlin spent his life protecting me so that I could become a great king and unite the lands of Albion. I intend to fulfil his dream. And to do this, I need to make some changes. And in honor of Merlin, this will be the first.

“Today, I bring peace back to Camelot. Today, I lift the ban on magic.”

 

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this fic, let me know what you thought! Thank you ~


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